Chapter Seventy-Two: His Heart Was Actually Reluctant
The place Ye Zhao took Kazuyo Kawamoto to was BEING’s recording studio in Roppongi. Since Riku Watanabe had put in a word beforehand, Ye Zhao couldn’t treat Kawamoto lightly, even if it was just for his sake, so he rather formally arranged for the audition to be held in a real studio.
Of course, he was also genuinely curious to see just how special this Kawamoto’s voice was.
“Ye Zhao-san, you’re here?” one of the studio staff greeted him.
“Mr. Yamada, could you arrange a studio room for me?”
Yamada answered with eager politeness, “Of course, no problem. Please follow me.” As he led them, he cast a cautious glance at Riku Watanabe and Kazuyo Kawamoto, these two unfamiliar faces. Though curious, he tactfully refrained from asking further.
...
When there were only the four of them left in the studio, Ye Zhao signaled for Kawamoto to step into the recording booth across the glass. “Well? Would you like me to go in and explain how things work?”
Kawamoto gave a gentle smile. “Thank you, Ye Zhao-san, but back home in Fukui, I used to record accompaniment for local underground bands.”
“Well, then, let’s get started. Just pick a song you’re good at.” Ye Zhao picked up a pair of monitor headphones and handed them to Riku Watanabe, then glanced at Yuuki Kamimura. “Do you want a pair?”
“I think I’ll go make some coffee for everyone,” Kamimura replied, and walked out of the studio.
Ye Zhao shrugged, put on his own headphones, and spoke into the mic that connected to the booth, “You can start now.”
Kawamoto gave an OK gesture.
...
Kawamoto’s choice of song surprised Ye Zhao a little. She chose “BLUE TEARS” by JUDY AND MARY.
As she began to sing, Ye Zhao’s mind wandered for a split second: That proud person who insisted she wasn’t some hothouse flower—what might she be doing right now?
But it was only a fleeting distraction. Very soon, Kawamoto’s voice pulled his attention back, and he finally understood why Riku Watanabe had said her singing was unique, while Kawamoto herself claimed she wasn’t suited to singing.
The original vocalist for “BLUE TEARS,” YUKI, was notable for her highly distinctive childlike voice. If YUKI’s voice was childlike, then Kawamoto’s was even more so—a true loli voice.
But hers wasn’t the cute, endearing, “moe” sort of loli voice. Rather, if one were to compare it to food, it was like natto, wasabi, or stinky tofu—flavors with a strong personality that some people adore, but others find intolerable, the kind that gives you goosebumps if you’re not a fan.
It was at this moment, as Ye Zhao watched Kawamoto’s face through the glass and listened to this distinctive voice in his headphones, that a certain name suddenly popped into his mind.
...
When the name Makoto Kawamoto surfaced in his thoughts, Ye Zhao instinctively resisted it. In fact, anyone who kept up with Japanese entertainment gossip or variety shows would probably laugh if they heard that name.
Don’t get the wrong idea—she didn’t end up as a variety show comedian who was constantly the target of pranks and ridicule; she merely dated a comedian.
Actually, comedians who made it big in Japanese entertainment weren’t seen as low-class at all—dating them wasn’t considered a downgrade. Akina Rika ended up marrying Takaaki Ishibashi, Norika Fujiwara not only married Tomonori Jinnai but was also cheated on during their marriage, and then there was Hitoshi Matsumoto, the diamond bachelor of the comedy world... If only things had gone that well.
However, the particular comedian Makoto Kawamoto dated was... Eikoh Kano.
What an indescribably awkward association.
...
In later years, that name would resurface in the public eye thanks to her involvement in Eikoh Kano’s string of love scandals, becoming just another trophy for the notorious playboy. But if you rewind time to 1997, she was a rising star, a rookie on everyone’s lips, whose opening theme for Rurouni Kenshin, “1/2,” sold 800,000 copies, and whose debut album, “Makoto Kawamoto,” broke the million mark and landed nineteenth on the annual charts. As a side note, the twentieth spot was held by Kinki Kids’ debut album “A album.”
Such achievements surely qualified her as a super rookie.
Yet it seemed her entire fortune was spent in that one debut year. The explosive success of her self-titled album made her an unstoppable superstar overnight, but although her heart was set on being a musician, she couldn’t adapt to the grueling schedule of non-stop studio work. Moreover, her personal ideals clashed with her agency’s policies, and from the moment she became famous, she was constantly at odds with her label. Eventually, in 2001, after her five-year contract ended, Makoto Kawamoto announced her departure and vanished from the public eye.
Three years later, she reemerged as an underground musician, but by then, the music scene had already moved on; her place had been filled, and her name gradually faded into obscurity, becoming just one of countless shooting stars in the world of entertainment.
...
When Kawamoto stepped out of the recording booth, the first thing she saw was Ye Zhao’s conflicted expression.
Unaware that Ye Zhao was silently mulling over her entertainment gossip, Kawamoto asked, a little unsure, “Um... Ye Zhao-san, was my singing really that bad?”
“No, not at all.” Ye Zhao cleared his throat. “On the contrary, your voice is truly distinctive.”
“If that’s so, then why do you look so troubled, Ye Zhao-san?”
“I’m not troubled. I was just thinking about what kind of path would suit you best if you were to debut.” Ye Zhao replied calmly.
“Eh?!” Kawamoto looked at him in disbelief.
Given how cautious and humble she seemed now, it was hard to imagine her as the person who once stood up to her agency and walked away at the peak of her fame. But whether Kawamoto, or rather, Makoto Kawamoto in the future, would follow the same trajectory as in history or not, Ye Zhao felt that any producer without an overly strong personal agenda would see the value in signing her.
And, although from an outsider’s perspective, her resume might not seem particularly remarkable compared to those legendary, universally beloved singers, she did have one advantage that set her apart from ordinary vocalists: she was a singer-songwriter.
Even after fading from the media spotlight, she remained active behind the scenes as a composer, later dabbling in experimental music. She was clearly talented and creative—even if her approach to things was sometimes impulsive.
In the end, since there are those who chase commercial success and those who dedicate their lives to niche music, a mature music industry should be able to accommodate such individuality.
Ye Zhao’s expression was sincere. “Miss Kawamoto, I truly believe you have what it takes to become a singer, so I’d like to introduce you to someone at a record company.”
“Eh?! Eh, eh, eh—” Kawamoto covered her mouth, letting out a long string of exclamations. It took her a while to recover, and she asked, voice trembling, “Really? Ye Zhao-san, but I don’t think I sing well, and I’m not cute either...”
“All right,” Ye Zhao interrupted her, “you need to have confidence in yourself. I don’t just think your singing isn’t bad—I think your voice is highly recognizable. It’s bound to attract attention.”
Riku Watanabe chuckled, trying to reassure her. “Kawamoto, Ye-kun wouldn’t joke about something like this. Don’t worry.” Then, turning to Ye Zhao, he asked, “Ye-kun, when do you plan to introduce Kawamoto to President Nagato?”
Ye Zhao thought for a moment. “Watanabe-san, I actually don’t plan to introduce Miss Kawamoto to BEING.”
“Not to BEING?” Riku seemed caught off guard.
“I don’t think BEING’s style suits Miss Kawamoto, and she wouldn’t have much of a future there.” Ye Zhao explained briefly, then turned to Kawamoto. “Miss Kawamoto, I’d like to invite you to join my personal agency, and have your management contract under my name. After that, I’ll help you connect with a record company and look for the right opportunity for your debut.”
“A management contract?”
Ye Zhao noticed her hesitation. “Don’t worry. It’s just a standard revenue-sharing contract—nothing restrictive. It’s only to help manage your affairs. You can look over the contract first before deciding whether to sign.”
“When can I see the contract?” Kawamoto seemed a little more at ease.
“Anytime you’re free, I’ll arrange it. As for the agency’s address...” Ye Zhao patted his pocket. “Let’s wait a bit—when Kamimura comes back, I’ll have him give you a business card.”
...
Kamimura finally returned, a little late, carrying four cups of hot coffee. The four of them sat on the small lounge sofa by the door, sipping coffee. Casually, Ye Zhao steered the conversation toward songwriting. “Miss Kawamoto, since you have formal training, have you ever tried composing?”
“To be honest, Ye Zhao-san, I’ve always been experimenting with songwriting. By now, I think I have about a dozen songs that I’m proud of.” She smiled shyly. “Actually, my original plan was, if nothing worked out after a while, I’d send some demos to the record companies and try to make it as a behind-the-scenes songwriter.”
“Do you compose on piano or guitar?”
“Guitar—it’s a bit more convenient for me.”
Ye Zhao glanced around the studio, stood up, and took a Gibson from the wall, encouraging her with his eyes. “Would you like to play something for us?”
Kawamoto hesitated for a few seconds, put down her cup, and accepted the guitar from Ye Zhao.
Her songwriting was quite good—solid, with some highlights, but not quite at the level of the very best. Her greatest strength, in fact, was not composing, but her remarkable lyric-writing ability. Despite her delicate appearance, her lyrics had real bite and sharpness.
What delighted Ye Zhao most, however, was Kawamoto’s guitar technique. He’d known she debuted as a guitar-playing singer, but hadn’t expected her skills to be so outstanding. Privately, Ye Zhao couldn’t help but marvel: truly, formal training makes all the difference—there’s nothing to criticize here.